


without measure

by heartsfilthylesson



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, txf revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/pseuds/heartsfilthylesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you feel fifty?” </p><p>“Not fifty,” she says and closes her eyes, “fifty-one.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	without measure

**Author's Note:**

> these are short and unrelated but they've been on my mind for awhile so why not. all vignettes are set around the time of the revival.

There are three missed calls from Mulder when she checks her phone. He picks up on the first ring. “We have a big problem.”

Scully presses the phone against her ear and feels something heavy settle in her heart at his words. It could be nothing (they might be out of coffee or the washer broke down again or he can’t find his favourite wool socks) but it could be everything (a mysterious call or an unexpected visit or bugs in their home) so she takes a breath and counts to five before asking, “what?”

It’s a moment too long before Mulder replies and her anxiety climbs even as she hears water running and pans and pots clinking, even once she knows everything’s okay. “Did you just play an eighty-eight point word?”

“Damn it, Mulder.” Scully sighs and pours herself a cup of terrible coffee. She adds more sugar than usual because she deserves it. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop playing eighty-eight point words.” His tone falls short of petulant and she can picture him then: shirtless and barefoot in front of the sink, worn-out fleece trousers low on his hips, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Never,” she whispers, managing to slip some threat into her voice, and she thinks she hears glass breaking when he laughs.

“Don’t be late tonight,” he says after a few quiet seconds and she nods though he cannot see her. “I’m making my special pasta”

They don’t say _goodbye_ because they don’t have to. They don’t say _I love you_ because they don’t need to.

 

-

 

“Do you feel fifty?” Mulder runs his fingernails along her scalp, his breath hot on the cooling skin of her neck.

“Not fifty,” she says and closes her eyes, “fifty-one.”

He shakes his head and the hideous brown sheets (his favourite set) ruffle with the movement. “You know what I mean.”

Scully thinks of the collection of supplements in one of the kitchen cupboards --glucosamine for the joints and flaxseed oil for the digestive system and saw palmetto for prostate health and black cohosh for perimenopause,-- she thinks of the dull ache in her lower back after every surgery and she thinks of the new wrinkles she’s found lately. Fifty year old bones are a heavy load to carry.

“Sometimes,” she tells him and feels him shiver when she turns and presses her lips under his jaw, hears his breath quicken when she slides a hand between them and wraps her fingers around the base of his cock. “But not right now. Not with you.”

 

-

 

“Scully?” His voice is rough from sleep and she remembers the time difference, that it’s nearly five am in Virginia.“You okay?”

Scully sighs because she should tell him that yes, she is okay and she should hang up and let him sleep (he sleeps less and less these days, they both do.) Instead, she sighs again and tells him she misses him.

“It’s only three days.”

She knows he’s trying be comforting but his words hurt because yes, she’ll be back in three days and it’s a bit irrational but she still misses him: she misses his chest pressed to her back, his wiry hair scratchy against her bare skin, and she misses his breath warming her skin. “I know.”

“How was your night?” He sounds more alert now and she wonders if he’ll stay up after their call ends, if he’ll make a pot of coffee and go for a run, if he’ll be disappointed when he returns to their bedroom and remembers she’s away.

“The last conference was dull,” Scully says and sits up on the bed, her back flat against the plush headboard, “but the hotel is nice.”

The line is silent for a minute or two before Mulder speaks. “I miss you too.”

“Good.”

 

-

 

“Do we really need these many yoghurts?” He looks at her like she’s crazy, the same expression she often wore when aliens and mothmen and flukemen were routine, and shakes his head. “This is overkill.”

“We need the casein,” she says and adds a bag of chia seeds to their trolley. “What we don’t need are sponge cakes. These are terrible.”

Mulder shrugs and rips open one of the boxes. He bites into one of the small cakes and offers her a piece . “I don’t know, Scully. They taste pretty good.”

She rolls her eyes and swats his hand away. “I’m not touching that.”

He shrugs again in a _more-for-me_ sort of way that makes him look much, much younger than fifty-something. “Chicken stir fry for dinner,” he says and grabs the bottle of extra virgin olive oil she’s struggling to reach. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” she says and checks another item off the shopping list on her phone, “but we’ll need more noodles.”

 

-

 

“You’re still so tense, doc.”, he says, fingers digging below her scapulae, mouth close to her ear. “Could I interest you in a happy ending?”

Scully hums. “I don’t know.”

His hands leave her shoulders and then he’s in front of her, between her legs on the cold kitchen floor. Her silk pajama pants barely get past her knees before his lips are on her, leaving tiny kisses along her inner thighs until he reaches her underwear and back down again.

“Happy ending?” He mutters the question into her skin and slips a finger past her underwear.

“Please,” she breathes and inches forward on the chair, closer to his mouth, closer to him.


End file.
